


Fragmen

by swaps55



Series: Mass Effect: Chronica [4]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, and lots of things in between, fluffy stuff, less fluffy stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-01-22 03:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaps55/pseuds/swaps55
Summary: Shorts and fragments from the Exordium-verse. All independent, and about various things.





	1. Squeak

Shepard doesn’t anything amiss when he shuts the door to his quarters. He doesn’t notice anything when he gets back to the _Normandy_. Joker makes the mistake of asking him about how the meeting with Anderson went and Shepard can’t even speak, just shoves on past and heads straight for the elevator.

He’s sitting at his desk with his head in his hands when he hears the squeak.

Of course, Shepard’s brain immediately assumes that something that squeaks in his cabin is something that needs a bullet. He’s actually got the pistol in hand when he spots the furry head staring at him from a glass cage that has mysteriously appeared on the shelf. 

What the _hell?_

“EDI,” he says cautiously. He hasn’t put away the gun, though the pocket sized mammal doesn’t exactly look like it’s about to explode.  

_“Please state your query, Commander?”_

He can’t believe he’s going to say this.

“Why is there a hamster in my quarters?”

“ _I believe Officer Vakarian is best suited to answer that question. Shall I page him to your location?”_

“Please.”

By the time Garrus gets there Shepard and the hamster are on slightly better terms. He’s progressed to tapping suspiciously on the glass without a firearm involved. The hamster responds by standing on its hind legs and sniffing the glass with the occasional squeak.

“Oh, good,” Garrus says, standing beside him with a relieved flange in his subvocals. “You found it. And didn’t shoot it.”

Shepard gives him a withering look. “If you thought that was a possibility, why didn’t you _warn_ me?”

“Because apparently you waited for the thirty seconds I was in the head to come back on board.”

Shepard looks from Garrus to the cage and back again. Clears his throat. Garrus’ mandible flicks. Finally the turian sighs.

“Williams said something once a long time ago when she was having a bad day. I asked her if there was anyone I could find for her to shoot, and what she told me was that while she appreciated the violence, what she really needed was a basketful of puppies and kittens. Now, I had to look up what those _were,_ but. What I took from it was that humans like to take comfort from things that are fluffy and shed.”

Shepard turns back to the hamster. On a whim he opens the cage and sticks a hand in. The little puffball noses his fingers, whuffles, then crawls into his palm. He lifts it gently out, cups it in his hands and subjects it to scrutiny. It squeaks.   

“I figured it was a better alternative than an actual puppy,” Garrus explains.

The hamster crawls around over his fingers, snuffing and poking with its nose, occasionally balancing its front paws on Shepard’s thumb to get a better look at its surroundings. Garrus shifts his weight.   

“Um. It didn’t come with a name. Chambers says these things need names.”

Shepard thinks for a minute.

“Hambo.”

Garrus repeats it slowly.

“Old Earth popular culture reference,” Shepard explains. “ _Really_ old. No one else on this ship would get it either.” He tilts his head. “Though, actually, I think twentieth century action vids might be something you could get behind. We should have a vid night sometime.”

A soft hum runs through Garrus’ subvocals. You can hear turian smiles better than you can see them. Something Shepard never really paid attention to before, now that he thinks about it.   

“Sure, Shepard. Just say when. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Shepard says softly.

He doesn’t clarify what the thank you is for. Garrus knows.

Hambo snuggles into the curl of Shepard’s fingers. And squeaks.


	2. Quarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus rubs his mandible, eyes drifting curiously back to Liara and Shepard, wondering what the hell he’s missing.
> 
> “Ever wonder how the hell they do it?” he asks.

The Commons is busier than usual. Since the coup business has actually increased, but Garrus notes there’s little pleasure in it. They move quicker. Heads down. Forced smiles. The end of the world is coming, he muses. They’re taking advantage of what time they have left, but they have no idea how to enjoy it. And it’s not just them. He fidgets a little in his seat, turns his glass in his talons before taking a curt sip. Mentally ticks off all the things he should be doing instead of taking five minutes to enjoy a drink at Apollo’s. 

“You’re bad at this, Vakarian,” Tali notes.

Garrus’s subvocals hum in embarrassment. “I know. Sorry.”

She tilts her head. Liquid flows up through her straw and into her suit filters. It takes four point two seconds for it to process and actually reach her throat. Garrus has no idea why he remembers that little factoid.

“Even Liara has learned to take a break every now and then,” she points out.

Garrus’ gaze drifts across the Commons to where Liara and Shepard lean against a railing, gazing at into the fake sunlight. Even from here it’s hard to miss how close they stand to each other. Shepard never slouches – makes him too vulnerable – but he does around her. Hell, both of them do around each other. Shoulders hunched towards each other, as though they can fence out the world around them. Pretend it’s not there. Occasionally she ducks her chin and smiles. Occasionally Shepard laughs. Things they rarely do outside of one another.

“Think she has good reason to,” Garrus observes.

Tali reaches over and flicks his mandible. Garrus makes a rather undignified noise that only makes her chuckle.

“What the hell was that for?”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” she replies, as she takes another sip.

Garrus rubs his mandible, eyes drifting curiously back to Liara and Shepard, wondering what the hell he’s missing.

“Ever wonder how the hell they do it?” he asks.

Tali’s straw starts sucking air, and Garrus signals to the waiter for another round.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Garrus gestures loosely with his talons. “Them. Their relationship. A lot of couples don’t even survive basic things, like managing their credits or juggling love and careers. And then we have these two, who have overcome matricide, secret identities, reapers, and oh yes. Death. They’ve done nothing but lose and find each other for three years and look at them.” He gestures again, more animated this time. “The galaxy is falling down around them and they’re…happy. How the hell do they do it?”

Tali taps a talon against her faceplate. The waiter – a sour faced salarian – sets her new drink down, and she busies herself for a moment inserting her induction port and making the necessary adjustments to start the filtering process. Garrus watches, mandible flicking.

“Quarks,” she says, once she’s finished.

“Excuse me?”

“Quarks,” she repeats, as if it makes all the sense in the world.

Garrus hums. “I don’t get it.”

“Quarks are created together,” she explains. “Uniquely tuned to one another on a quantum level. They’re made for each other, Garrus. The things that make them unique are what bond them together. Literally across space and time.” She gazes out across the Commons, and Garrus finds himself wishing he knew what her smile looked like.

It doesn’t really occur to him until later that somehow he knew she was smiling.

“The more you pull them apart,” she continues, “the harder they try to snap back together. It’s how the QEC works, actually.”

“So Liara and Shepard are quantum particles.”

“Always fighting to get back to each other,” she agrees.

Garrus picks up his glass and swirls its contents. On the other side of the commons Shepard touches his forehead to Liara’s.

“That…might be the most romantic, nerdy thing I’ve ever heard,” he says eventually. “How did you come up with that?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “I’m a sappy hearted, hopeless romantic, Garrus. In case you didn’t know.”

Garrus clears his throat a tad uncomfortably, shifts in his seat. “Yeah, well. I like that about you.”

Liquid swirls through her straw. “That right?”

His mandible flares slightly. “That doesn’t mean I’ll watch Fleet and Flotilla.”

“Admit it, Vakarian,” she says sternly. “You’re secretly wishing I’ll force you to sit down and watch it. You just need the excuse.”

“You’ve been giving me the excuse for three years,” he points out. “I still haven’t given in.”

She relaxes back in her chair and chuckles. “Garrus, you’ve turned up in the Normandy twice looking to drag me back into the fray. What other possible excuse could there be?”

Now it’s his turn to chuckle. He looks back once more at his commanding officer, standing side by side with the most influential information broker in the galaxy. Two of the most powerful people alive in these dangerous times, and he’s pretty sure they’re holding hands.

“Quarks, huh?”

She raised her glass, and he clinks his against it. “Quarks.”


	3. Lower Decks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Shepard comes back from Alchera, twenty orphaned dog tags resting in the pocket on his hip, he begins writing letters. They are too little, two years too late, something he doesn’t know if the families even want anymore. Chances are they’ve moved on, and this will be nothing more than the opening of old wounds perhaps best left untouched. 
> 
> But he hasn’t grieved.

When Shepard comes back from Alchera, twenty orphaned dog tags resting in the pocket on his hip, he begins writing letters. They are too little, two years too late, something he doesn’t know if the families even want anymore. Chances are they’ve moved on, and this will be nothing more than the opening of old wounds perhaps best left untouched. 

But he hasn’t grieved. Can’t sleep. So he does it anyway. 

Some of them he knew well, others not at all. He can’t, for instance, remember anything about Harvey Gladstone, other than he was a command deck technician who worked third shift. Marcus Greico, however, is so vivid in his memory Shepard still balks a little at the sight of Gardener manning his post in the Normandy’s galley. They are a study in contrasts – Gardener’s cheerful, oblivious droll stands sharply against Greico’s quiet, keen eye that never missed what his crewmates liked, didn’t like, and missed from home. Only Alenko ever got him to talk – Alenko has that way with people – so the only time Shepard ever learned anything about him was during their impromptu late night meals when the mess was quiet. Those nights he occasionally talked about home, Lárisa, Greece, and the meals his father used to fix. Shepard misses Grieco’s moussaka. 

Gladstone’s letter goes to a woman listed in the file as his sister. Greico has no next of kin, so Shepard asks Chambers to look up the name of an old marine buddy Shepard remembers him mentioning. It takes a little doing, but she finds it, and Shepard sends Greico’s letter there. 

He writes a joint letter for Dubyansky and Pakti without even thinking about it – it doesn’t occur to him until it’s done that Dubyansky’s parents might not even know who Pakti is (and vice versa), despite the fact Shepard can’t think of a single instance where he saw one without the other. An odd friendship for two people so inherently different, both physically and personally, but they had become such a fixture on the Normandy Shepard couldn’t imagine them ever being apart. 

Dubyansky grew up wealthy with a big family in Russia, joining the military more to spite his father than because he cared about what might be waiting out there in the big, black void. He had the kind of voice that could be heard from anywhere on the ship, spoke too fast and was prone to lapsing into Russian when he got excited. Pakti hailed from Mumbai and came from nothing, enlisting because it was the only way he knew to escape the slums. He left behind a mother who drank and rarely bothered to come home, but Shepard noted he still sent occasional messages to see if she was ok. He stood a full head shorter than Dubyansky with lean, pointed shoulders that were always hunched. Despite being soft-spoken and thoughtful, he had a sharp wit and thought at the speed of a salarian. 

Dubyansky and Pakti hadn’t met before reporting for duty on the Normandy, but it had taken about nine seconds for one to make some obscure reference that the other recognized, and they hadn’t left each other’s side ever since. Despite their obvious physical and personality differences, before long it had almost been hard to tell them apart. When Dubyansky broke into Russian Pakti would fire back in Hindi, and the next thing you knew they’d actively started teaching each other their native tongues. The first time Dubyansky had greeted him in Hindi Shepard thought he’d stepped into the twilight zone. 

During the first salvo Dubyansky had gotten pinned beneath a bulkhead. Pakti refused to leave him behind. 

When Shepard gets to the engineers he thinks abruptly of Adams, wondering what must have gone through his head when he had to tell the families of his entire engineering team that their loved ones weren’t coming home. What’s worse is that two of them, Raymond Tanaka and Monica Negulesco, had made it off the ship, only to go down in an escape pod that couldn’t maintain stable orbit long enough for help to arrive. 

Adams had hand-picked Negulesco, a dark-skinned, woman with striking hazel eyes and long, thick hair she always swept back in some unique twist or braid. Her sonorous voice had the soothing effect of a lullaby, a handy quality when you worked with someone as high-strung as Tanaka. Shepard remembers her being quiet, reserved, frequently sketching on her datapad and in fact once accidentally sending Shepard her artwork instead of a report. It had been a portrait of a dragon, with a savage head and eyes clearly inspired by Wrex, brought to life with a flurry of thin, sharp black strokes and scales like rubbed charcoal. He’d kept it, in fact even starts to look for it before remembering with a pang of regret it’s now probably buried somewhere under the Alchera snow. Her husband probably would have liked to have it. 

Raymond Tanaka’s letter is a little harder to write. Tanaka, quite honestly, was a bit of a prick, ambitious and abrasive and obsessed with his career. It hadn’t won him friends, but didn’t change the fact he was a good engineer. Truth be told Shepard saw a little of himself in Tanaka, especially after catching him wistfully watching some of his colleagues laugh over a poker game after hours, the perpetual outsider looking in. Tanaka was the only child of a businessman on Freedom’s Progress. His mother had died five years before. 

The polar opposite of Tanaka is Caroline Grenado, the petite, effusive engineer with green eyes as vivid as her smile. Her penchant for constantly changing hair colors had given Adams fits until Shepard stepped in and eased the Alliance dress code to allow the occasional streak of purple, sometimes blue. Grenado had come from Earth, rural England, youngest of six children raised by a single mother. She was the first member of her family to finish school and even leave their hometown, much less the solar system. According to her file she’d arranged to have a significant chunk of her paycheck sent home each pay cycle to take care of her siblings. 

Much of what he knows about Grenado actually comes from Tali, who probably spent as much time with her as she did anyone else on the ship. But while his own memories of her are more sparse, Shepard isn’t ever going to forget the time she rigged Tanaka’s terminal to play show tunes every time he tried to browse the extranet. 

When he asks Garrus if he knows why Grenado didn’t make it off the ship, the haunted look that passes across the turian’s generally unflappable features makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t press for details. He doesn’t want to know.

A quick look at the SR-1 report Anderson provided indicates Joker of all people wrote letters for two fallen crewmembers. The first is for Pressly, sent to his brother and ex-wife. Shepard stops himself from actually reading the contents – it’s too much of a violation – but the identity of the second takes him by surprise: Addison Chase, the blue-eyed, blonde-haired member of the bridge crew he’d never seemed to get along with. Joker trusting someone else to fly his ship, even long enough for him to get some sleep and have the occasional meal, is a little like Shepard trusting someone else to run the ground team. The pretty young pilot had plenty of skill she wanted the chance to showcase, and Joker never gave it to her. 

So much wasted. So much lost. To survive the battle of the Citadel only to be cut down unawares by an unknown enemy feels cheap and unfair, the worst possible end Shepard could have designed for them. They didn’t go down fighting. They didn’t go down giving their lives for something greater. They went down in a fit of chaos and confusion, fire and panic, and it fills him with something so bitter he can taste it in the back of his mouth like an ever present poison. 

Thinking of them makes the halls of the new Normandy seem emptier, more foreign, and though Shepard knows it’s irrational he can’t help but resent the virtual strangers manning their posts, all wearing Cerberus uniforms. 

He looks at the insignia on his own shoulder and feels a sharp stab of guilt. Who is he to write these people, people who lost a child, a spouse, a parent, while working for someone who by all rights should be the enemy? 

Not for the first time he wonders how much it matters what his intentions are. After all, Saren started with good intentions, too. He wonders if Pakti and Dubyansky would have followed him to Cerberus. Part of him is glad he doesn’t have the answer, because the ones who survived and aren’t here, Adams, Alenko, Liara…hurt enough. 

He looks over each letter, throat tightening a little. Each one feels hollow and inadequate. Words are not his forte, actions are, and he doesn’t know if he can ever really honor the twenty dogtags weighing down his pockets like pieces of lead. It’s not enough, it’s never enough, but it’s all there is.

So he’ll remember their names. Their faces. And live knowing that whatever second chance he has been given, will in some way always be for them.


	4. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashley drops into the chair across from Alenko, acutely aware that her uniform is wrinkled, and long, dark strands of still-wet hair have already pulled loose from her bun. Her legs haven’t seen a razor blade in a week, and she doesn’t even care.
> 
> “I hate you,” she says, and swears she means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite Exordium-verse, but also very much same Ashley, same Kaidan. It kind of....is what it is? And I liked it, so here.

When Ashley stumbles into the mess, surly and grumbling and checking her chronometer to confirm that ass o’clock in the morning is in fact an honest to God real time of day, Alenko is already there, sipping a cup of coffee and scrolling through a datapad. Not a hair out of place nor a wrinkle to be found in his uniform, and unlike Ashley he kind of looks like he’s enjoying the world he lives in. Even his aftershave smells alert.

She drops into the chair across from him, acutely aware that her own uniform _is_ wrinkled, and long, dark strands of still-wet hair have already pulled loose from her bun. Her legs haven’t seen a razor blade in a week, and she doesn’t even care.

“I hate you,” she says, and swears she means it.

He slides a second cup of coffee across the table, hot and steaming like he knew exactly what time she’d come staggering in, half amused and half pitying her sorry state.

She takes the cup without thanking him, the strong aroma filling her nostrils with the first semblance of peace since she rolled out her sleeper pod. One cream and an ice cube – the bastard even knows exactly how she likes it, and not because she’s told him. Alenko’s too observant for his own good.

“I still hate you,” she says, taking a sip.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, still skimming his datapad, a smile threatening the corners of his lips. She drinks in silence, each sip encouraging a few more neurons to start firing in sync. Halfway through the cup she notices Alenko is watching her, smirking. He has no idea how lucky he is she hasn’t decked him.

“Grenado came through here complaining you used up all the hot water again,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “ _Grenado_ doesn’t have long hair.”

“Ashley Williams. Slayer of geth. Vanquisher of rachni. Ms. Makeup is for People with Something to Hide and There’s No Place to Carry a Gun on a Dress. Requires the most prep time of anyone on the _Normandy._ ” He shakes his head and chuckles. She weighs the pros and cons of tossing what’s left in her cup on his spotless shirt.  

“Hey, _you_ grow a mop on your head and see how long it takes _you_ to get ready in the morning.”

“Why don’t you just cut it?” Now there’s genuine curiosity in his voice, and she almost spits out a mouthful of coffee to keep from laughing, because leave it to Alenko to start a conversation about hair.

“Because,” she replies, which is less embarrassing than the truth, which is that she grows it long secretly because she _likes_ her hair, thinks it’s her best feature, and even though she twists it up in a pile on the back of her head like a turtle shell every day, she can’t bear to cut it off.

Alenko shrugs. “Just seems like a lot of upkeep to me. You’re not all that big on, uh. Upkeep.” It’s a dig at her wrinkled clothes, and she _will_ deck him for that one. Later.

“So it takes a little work to keep shiny and lice free,” she says, tugging at the rebel strands and forcing them back into place. “I dunno. Maybe I should hack it off. Don’t get much chance to wear it down, and it’s not I turn anyone’s head with it yanked back in a military style bun.”

Alenko slides his chair back and gets to his feet, a closed, thoughtful look coming over his face. It’s an odd expression that she doesn’t recognize, which is odd because for someone who wins so goddamned much at poker he usually walks around with his emotions stapled to his forehead. In blinking neon lights.

He catches her eye, lowers his chin and smiles, like he’s figured something out that she hasn’t.

“Yeah…you do.”

He’s halfway to the CIC stairwell before it dawns on her what he’s said. She stares confused into her coffee cup, then up at his retreating back in time to see the corner of his eye as he casts a furtive glance over his shoulder, most definitively looking at _her,_ wrinkled shirt, unruly hair and all.

Oh.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , he _has_ figured out something she hasn’t. 

 


	5. Are You Fucking Kidding Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt. :)

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Hey,” Kaidan says, holding up his hands as if warding off a blow. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Ashley crosses her arms, her perfected expression of vexation all too visible even under her faceplate. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Kaidan shrugs, glancing over his shoulder at Shepard, who doesn’t dare turn around as he hops back in the Mako even though Kaidan is positive he’s listening over the comm.

“Ash—”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“One way or another we have to find it,” he says with a helpless gesture. “Hackett’s orders.”

She points to the Mako as it speeds conspicuously off to the north. “Our illustrious fucking Spectre and his turian sidekick are abandoning us to scan minerals, Kaidan. Latrine duty is better than this.”

Kaidan glances at the ground, where something small and hairless wuffles at his feet. “At least they seem friendly?”

“They’re monkeys, Kaidan. Fucking monkeys managed to ran off with vital Alliance intelligence – which, by the way, says something about the military I don’t even want to get into - and our CO, who apparently hates us, has ordered us to sift through their refuse to find it.”

The monkey coos. Then bites at the ablative coating of Kaidan’s boot.

They both stare at it.

Ashley narrows her eyes and looks up. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Kaidan exclaims. “How is it my fault?”

“Believe me, I’m going to come up with a reason.”

Well, that’s certainly true. And she’ll somehow find a way to make it plausible and inarguable, too.

Kaidan squats close to the ground and waggles his fingers. Within seconds three monkeys run up to investigate. None of them appear to know anything about a lost data module. “You know, this might not be as bad as you think.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

He gets back to his feet and looks around them. Bright afternoon sun shines across a clear blue sky. A breeze ruffles through the grass, causing the green blades to wave lazily back and forth. In the distance he can hear the hopeful call of something that might be a bird. “At least it’s a nice day?”

Ashley sighs. “I wish flame throwers were standard issue.”

He chuckles. “You’re going to have to try charm over carnage, I’m afraid.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what those words mean.”

“I know,” he says, patting the back of her hardsuit.. “Fortunately for you, I’m here.”

“I hate Eletania,” she grumbles.

“Dunno,” Kaidan muses as he guides her towards the monkey’s nest. “Company’s pretty nice.”

He can picture her exasperated eyebrows without turning to look for them.

“Really, Kaidan?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Really.”

She falls uncharacteristically silent. But when he catches a glimpse of her faceplate he’s pretty sure she’s smiling.


	6. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt: "I'm Lost"

“Admit it.”

“Admit what, that I am lost?”

“Yep.”

“I am not lost.”

“Pretty sure you’re lost.”

Liara’s brow furrows even deeper, and Shepard only narrowly avoids her poisonous look. Heaving a sigh, she wipes some of the sweat from her forehead. The humidity on this planet is nothing short of obscene, like a heavy, soggy weight hanging from her limbs that makes the simple act of breathing more like a herculean effort. The thick canopy of trees boxing them in helps to keep out some of the sun, but in exchange for still, stagnant air that probably hasn’t stirred since the protheans were here. She’s tempted to put her helmet back on just for the temperature regulation, but she leaves it clipped to her hip. There’s no way she’s giving Shepard the satisfaction of thinking she’s using her HUD to reorient themselves.

“We have state of the art navigation equipment in these hardsuits,” she informs him. “We are not. Lost.”

Shepard points. “See that tree over there?”

Liara follows his gaze, eyes narrowed, to a squat, thick bole covered in knots of gnarled bark. Overhead something hoots, and the unending chorus of insects echoes in the background. “Yes.”

“We passed it an hour ago.”

There is nothing in his voice to give him away. But his eyes glint with humor she does not find amusing. “You are just saying that.”

He makes an exaggerated show of brandishing his omnitool. “I set a nav point.”

She glares at him for a full three seconds before she resumes walking. “We are almost there.”

Shepard jogs to keep up, and she refuses to look over at his grin. “Sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“You know if you wanted to get lost in the jungle with me, all you had to do was say so. We didn’t have to have prothean ruins as an excuse.”

She lowers her chin and deigns a glance his way. “I thought you were also hoping for a band of mercenaries to show up.”

“Well, I’m not saying that wouldn’t be fun.” He snags her by the wrist, staying her momentum and pulling her towards him. She could have stopped herself from colliding with his chest.

She doesn’t.

The feel of his arm and the warmth of his chest are lost among their hardsuits, but the look in his eyes carries just as much heat.

“But this,” he says, lowering his forehead to hers, “is pretty nice, too.”

Her expression softens. His grin turns devilish.

“Even if we are lost.”


End file.
